The Argument
by angeline831
Summary: Draco finds out the consequences of hogging the covers. HD Slash


DISCLAIMER: I am the great and powerful J. K. Rowling, creator of this universe, series, and characters. It's _mine_, all of it, and you can't have it/delusions J. K. Rowling owns the series, not me… please don't sue!

Harry was rudely awakened by the not-as-infrequent-as-he-would-like sensation of freezing his bits off.

"Draco."

A grunt that could have been assent came from the other side of the bed.

"Draco."

A roll.

"Malfoy."

"What is it, Potter? Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?"

"You stole the covers. Again. The heater kicked off. Again. I'm bloody freezing. Again. Sensing a pattern here?"

"Yes, it appears you need to fix the heater. Again."

"Not the point. The point, Draco, is that you're hogging the covers. It's inconsiderate."

A sleepy mumble, sounding suspiciously like _That's nice_.

A yank, and Harry was wrapped in lovely blankets, content.

Until Draco discovered that he was freezing, which shouldn't have happened, seeing as how he held all of the—

"Potter."

Silence.

"Potter!"

A sleepy mumble.

"Potter, the covers are mine. Give them back. Weasley's old blanket is in the closet—go grab it if you're cold."

"But I like _these_."

"Of course you like them—_I_ picked them out. They came from _my_ room at the Manor. It follows that I reserve the right to reclaim them at any point I deem necessary. I'm deeming it necessary."

A yank, and Draco was warm again. Then, another yank, and the frigid flat air met his bare arse again. It quickly developed into a blanket tug-of-war—and then Draco heard an absolutely _horrifying_ sound.

_Riiiiiiippp._

Draco leapt out of the bed, finding his pajama bottoms over by the window, where they'd been hastily tossed the night before. "Potter. Out of the bed. Now. You've relinquished all rights to sleeping with _that_. In fact, you may have relinquished your rights to _living_." His tightly controlled voice was a warning.

Tugging the torn blanket closer to his freezing body, Harry attempted to go back to sleep.

"_Potter_. Get your bloody arse out of the bed before I have to resort to force."

A soft snore was heard.

Angry mutters, rummaging through the night table, and a whispered spell.

"_Draco!_ I'm coming, I'm coming. Don't get your bloody knickers in a twist." Harry tried to rid himself of the icy water cascading down from his hair into his eyes and mouth.

Draco stormed into the kitchen and waited for Harry to show his face.

Harry appeared a few moments later, toweling his hair and tugging hastily at a new set of pajamas. "Ok, what is it?"

"None of this 'What is it' garbage. As I recall, _you_ woke _me_ up. And then you proceeded to ruin my day—no, my _life_."

"Draco, don't be such a drama queen. I'm tired. You're tired. Let's just go back to sleep."

"Harry. Think back to what happened since you so rudely insinuated that I was being inconsiderate." The vein above his left eye ticked off the beats of his increased heart rate—another warning of an impending explosion.

"You said they were yours, I pulled them back towards me, you pulled them back towards you, and I tried to pull them back to me and… Oh, _shit_."

"'Oh shit' is right, you bumbling nitwit! You _ruined_ my bloody _blankets_!"

"Calm down, Draco, I'll buy you a new set, even nicer than--"

"Don't you try your fucking platitudes with me, Potter." His voice was growing ever louder, and Harry was suddenly grateful for the ever-present Silencing Charm on their flat. "What part of _I brought them from the Manor_ did you not understand! You _know_ how precious few things I have from home! You _arse_! You unmitigated _arse_!" Draco was pacing now, in an attempt to keep from throwing things. "Harry, how can you think that those blankets can be replaced? I've been sleeping with them ever since I was 16!"

"Draco, I'm sure--"

"Harry, shut the fuck _up_! Those blankets were the last gift I ever received from my father, before I joined your bloody side in the war! And to know that I'll never receive another gift from him again, thanks to the bloody Kiss—and the Manor—the Manor--"

Draco abruptly stopped and collapsed into a dining room chair, sobbing. Harry instinctively tried to comfort him, then wondered why he was surprised when Draco shoved him away.

Fully awake now, Harry wandered back into their room to see what he could do to fix this mess.

"Excuse me?"

"Hermione, I need to know if your mother-in-law would _kindly_ fix these for me. It's _extremely_ important."

A sigh. "Well, I'll see what I can do, but tell me why it is so absolutely _vital_ to fix these covers of yours."

"They're Draco's."

The crash of broken china.

"Harry, how could you be so _stupid_? If I weren't six months pregnant, you'd be in seriously danger right now. As it is, I'm not risking my baby just to attempt to knock some sense into your head. What on earth were you _thinking_? Never mind, I remember now—thinking just doesn't happen very often with you, does it?"

"It was an accident, I _swear_!"

"Well I should hope so! Even you're not stupid enough to destroy something of Draco's on _purpose_!"

Harry blushed, thinking of the time he'd… shortened Draco's only skirt because he'd thought it covered too much. Draco's gone on a diet for weeks, thinking that his arse had gotten bigger.

"Spill it. What on earth could possibly warrant destruction of Draco's property?"

Harry returned his thoughts to the very serious matter at hand. "Draco was stealing the covers, 'Mione. I was cold. And sleepy. So I pulled them back, and they ripped."

Hermione rolled her eyes heavenward and prayed for patience in dealing with boys like Harry.

"I'll see what I can do, but I wouldn't expect miracles. Now shoo—you have some serious groveling to do. And _that_ I am not about to help you with."

Harry apparated outside of their flat, arms laden with everything from the makings of a truly romantic French dinner to Draco's favorite pink roses, from the only florist he'd deemed remotely respectable located on the outskirts of Paris. He somehow managed to open the door and was just in time to see a flash of platinum hair disappear. Harry placed his items on the counter and was about to turn on the stove when he noticed the parchment lying on top of it. He picked it up and read.

_Harry,_

_If I know you as well as I think I do, at this moment you're likely set on making genuine French cuisine and laying out a romantic dinner with roses and chocolate and candles. Don't. I'm not coming home tonight. In fact, I might not be coming home for a while._

_I need time to deal with this—deal with the upsurge of painful memories today caused, and the knowledge that you apparently don't know me as well as you and I both thought you did, and the destruction of my security blankets. Don't try to find me—seeing you won't help me right now._

_If we're lucky, we can make it through this—we can come out of this stronger and more secure in our relationship. If not, I'll have to say goodbye—I've more baggage than I thought I had, and with your status, it may be too much for any relationship to bear._

_In the meantime,_

_Draco_

In disbelief, Harry walked through the flat, noting in each room the marked absence of Draco's things, from his toothbrush to his shower gel to his clothes—even the stash of _Witch Weekly_'s that he'd hidden behind the pile of Quidditch posters in their room.

Harry wandered dazedly into their bedroom and sat down on their bare bed, head in his hands, contemplating how he was going to get Draco to come home.

It took only four days for Harry to break down. Four days of showing up for work and pretending everything was ok. Four days of mindless filing that left him free to worry. Four nights of missing Draco's daily routine, missing the warmth of Draco's body, Draco's soft snore. Four dawns met by an exhausted Harry, tired of hating himself and tired of being cold (even though the heater was fixed) and _tired_ of being lonely.

On that fourth day, Harry called in sick from work and was contemplating crying the day away when Hermione flooed into his flat.

"Harry, what on earth happened?"

"He left, 'Mione. He left. And told me not to follow."

"Over _blankets_?"

"Last gift from Lucius. From the Manor before it burned."

Hermione was torn between the urge to smack him for ripping something so obviously dear to Draco and hugging the despondency out of him. "Harry. Look at me." He lifted red-rimmed eyes to hers. "Have you found him?"

"He told me not to."

"And you just let him go? _Harry_. If you were Draco, would you want to be alone right now?"

"No, but I'm _not_ him, and he said I didn't know him and that he may have to leave me for good and that we both have too much baggage and--" Hermione cut him off with a finger to his lips.

"Harry. Go find him. Comfort him. Woo him. Grovel and beg him. And most importantly, take him his mended blankets." She pulled a palm-sized bundle out of her purse and placed it in his hand.

"I miss him. I miss him _so much_."

"Then go find him, before it tears you apart. Don't let me stop you."

Harry stood, a faint smile on his face. "'Mione?"

"I don't see you leaving."

"Thank you. For everything."

"Just go. Before I decide to hex you anyway."

It took him three hours to find him. Three hours of carrying his romantic overtures in his pocket, with the appropriate cooling charms on the perishables and freshness charms on the flowers. Three hours of using the Point Me spell as a basic locator, traversing the streets of London to compensate for the limited range of the spell. Three hours outside in the remnants of last week's blizzard, trudging through the knee-deep snow, afraid to apparate anywhere for fear of losing track of Draco. By the time Harry found him, in his old flat on the outskirts of London, Harry was once again freezing his bits off. He spelled the door open, desperate to see him and hold him and never let him go ever again.

"You found me." Harry was already putting his items on the counter and heading towards the stove when he heard that.

"Yes, I did. I know you told me not to look for you, and that--"

"Took you long enough. I was worried that I might actually have to leave you if you couldn't understand how much I wanted you to come after me."

Harry blanched and thanked the gods he didn't believe in that Hermione had figuratively knocked some sense into him. He turned, wanting to see what he'd been missing these past few days, and was absolutely appalled—Draco was a wreck.

His eyes were red-rimmed, his ever-impeccable hair was tousled beyond belief, and he looked as if he hadn't moved from that spot since he'd arrived four days ago. He was pale, and looked on the brink of collapse. Harry promptly ditched the romance and dashed towards him.

He gathered the man into his arms and held on for dear life. Draco didn't resist—in fact, buried his face in Harry's chest as the floodgates opened again.

It took only two minutes for Draco to stop crying. Two heart-wrenching minutes for Harry, knowing that he was unwittingly the cause of his pain, not knowing how to make it better, just _being_ there and taking comfort from Draco's weight in his arms as much as he was giving it.

"I went to see him, the day I left."

Harry said nothing, and just let him talk.

"It was awful. Every time I see him, I keep hoping that I'll see something of my father, or even something of Voldemort's right hand man. Something of the man who gave me those blankets and who taught me everything I know about pride and being a Malfoy. Instead…."

Harry remained silent and held Draco tighter.

"They gave him crayons. As if he were a baby. When I walked in, he was doodling something that may have been the Manor if I dared to hope he had any recollection of it. He held up his finished picture and pointed at it, as if expecting praise, and I couldn't say anything, only nod. He's … gone. It didn't really hit me before, but he's gone and he's not coming back and I _miss_ him."

He trailed into silence and he and Harry stayed in that position for a long time.

Eventually, Harry's stomach let out a loud groan, reminding him of his plans to woo Draco back to him. He reluctantly let go of Draco and started preparing for dinner—set up candles and took out the wine he'd inherited from Dumbledore and put the roses on the table. When he was finished, he led Draco to the food and encouraged him to eat. Trying to lighten the mood, he asked, "So, why do you still have this place? I thought you'd gotten rid of it when you moved in with me?" He lifted a bite to his mouth and waited for Draco's response.

"So I could have someplace to go if we ever fell apart." Harry's fork clattered to his plate, and he was motionless for a second—a second of disbelief, of fear that Draco still might leave him, of disappointment in Draco's lack of faith. Then he dashed to the other side of the table and fell to his knees.

"_Draco_. No matter what happens, no matter how many times we inadvertently hurt each other, no matter how far you run away from our arguments, I will _always_ love you. And I will always find you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and there's no way I'm letting you go. We're not going to fall apart, because I love you and I'm about 90 sure that you love me back. So there. When we go home, you can get rid of this flat, because those four days I spent without you were the worst in my life."

Draco paused for a bit, then nodded. "I still haven't forgiven you, you know. I just need you more than I'm angry with you at the moment."

"I thought as much—I haven't gotten to the begging yet."

"How 'bout this: let's head to the bedroom, and you can do your begging there."

"One thing first." Harry pulled the bundle out of his pocket and ended the Shrinking Charm on it. "Good as new."

Draco gaped as he inspected his mended blankets. "Harry? How? They don't even look as if you ever ripped them!"

"I have friends who can work miracles, and who know how much you mean to me and how I would do _anything_ to fix the damage I cause."

"Anything?"

"Yes, love. Anything. Now I believe I have some begging to do."

And with that he carried Draco into the bedroom and proceeded to beg quite nicely.

Later that week, Harry was greeted at work by Hermione's owl.

_Harry_

_You owe me for those blankets. Do you have any idea how money it cost me to find a set exactly like Draco's? And the effort? Far more than a pregnant lady should have to do. I'll be cashing in on that favor soon, and trust me, it'll be a big one._

_If I were you, I'd be dreading it. _

_Your extremely gracious friend,_

_Hermione._

_P.S. We've decided to name the baby Connor, and we're hoping that you'll be its godfather. One warning, though: If you're as bad an influence as Sirius was, I reserve the right to revoke this decision whenever I see necessary. Even if Connor's 30._

Harry shook his head and thanked the gods that he had friends like Hermione, even as he was wondering what he was going to have to do to pay her back.


End file.
